A Cradle His Grave
by starlightwalking
Summary: Acorns and mithril: these were tokens of Bilbo's life, tokens Thorin would have found most meaningful. But Thorin was gone, along with Bilbo, and Bofur was here instead. ONESHOT. Gift to buriedbilbo on tumblr.


Merry Christmas to buriedbilbo on tumblr!

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 **A Cradle His Grave**

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Death is commonplace in the heat of battle. Blood flies, sweat stains, all coherence and cohesion is lost in the fervor of pain and swords. Innocent blood is spilt, and innocent lives lost, when war rests its heavy wings over the battlefield.

Small hobbits are fragile and easily broken. In battle, death comes to anyone unable to protect themselves. And he tried, Bilbo tried—he fought with his tiny sword alight with the blue magic of the elves, but even elven magic from long ago cannot save those whose time has run out.

Bilbo's hourglass had run out of sand.

He was disarmed, cornered, cowering. The orc approached mercilessly. There was no one to save him, no way out. He fumbled for the Ring in his pocket, but it had abandoned him, realizing its danger. He could find only his acorn, useless in the face of death.

The orc struck him on the head, the only part of him not protected by his mithril coat, and he fell. His body was broken, crumpled, cast aside and buried under the mangled flesh of others who had suffered the same fate as him.

No one found the body. Those of Laketown claimed their dead after it was all over, but no one recognized the battered, bloodied corpse of one small hobbit from the Shire. He was cast aside, cast away, to decompose into the ground with naught but time to bury him.

* * *

Much was lost that day beyond the life of Bilbo Baggins. The Line of Durin was broken, all its heirs falling to the Pale Orc's wrath. There had been none to warn them of the second army approaching. They were caught unawares and every dwarf up on Ravenhill was slaughtered.

The battle lasted for days. It was not until one final assault, led by Dáin Ironfoot and a heartbroken Balin, that Azog was slain, and the victory won. But it was a day of mourning, not a day of rejoicing.

The dead were buried. A new king of Erebor was crowned. The dwarves of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield had four bodies to bury: Thorin himself, his sister-sons Fíli and Kíli, and Dwalin, son of Fundin, their loyal friend who had followed them until his very last breath.

But there were five to mourn, though only four bodies could be found. Bofur searched long and hard for days, looking as he had throughout the journey for any sign of one loyal, careworn hobbit. But no trace of him was found.

At long last, Balin found him weeping among the dead.

"Come and rest, lad," he said, his voice breaking. "We all mourn his loss. But it will not do to dwell on it. I miss my brother, I miss Thorin, I miss the lads. I miss poor Bilbo, wherever he rests. But there is work to be done. Rest. Recover. You are a good dwarf, Bofur. You tried. Bilbo knows that."

Bofur submitted to the older dwarf's counsel. Life moved on around him and the others, as life does. Winter passed, and spring brought new life and new prosperity to the kingdom of Erebor.

Years passed. On the anniversary of the Battle of the Five Armies. Bofur would go into Dale and search again each year, as if somehow, he could find a trace of the hobbit the Company had lost.

It became a tradition for the Company to gather the day after Bofur's search, to comfort him, and to remember all they had gained on that journey—and all they had lost. They told stories, recounted tales, passed on memories.

"I remember once, before the Battle, Bilbo showed me an acorn he had found in Beorn's garden," Balin said once. "He had kept it as a keepsake to remember the journey by. He showed it to Thorin, also, I believe. May Durin bless both their souls."

Bofur then told the story of how Bilbo had almost left the Company in the Misty Mountains. "But he stayed and helped us fight Azog and the Wargs," he concluded. "He was a good friend."

Bofur grew old, wondering if he'd been a good friend to Bilbo as well. He passed on his stories to the others—how Bilbo had tried to save Thorin from the dragonsickness by giving the Arkenstone to Bard, and how he, Bofur, had let him escape by leaving his watch a bit early. How Bifur's axe had come out of his head at last—that one always got a laugh. He was a good storyteller. He only wished one of his stories was how Bilbo had saved the lives of everyone up on Ravenhill, and his own as well.

"Bofur, why do you go out there each year?" Bombur asked him one time as he prepared to leave for his annual attempt. "Bilbo's body can't be found. You know that, right? Come to the graves with the rest of us."

"I go to remember him," Bofur said simply. "I go because I think it's what Bilbo would have wanted."

"Suit yourself," said Bombur. Bofur left.

The days were long when one dwelled on the tragic past. The shadows of war had long ago left these lands, and Dale was prosperous, but Bofur still searched. Each year it was in vain.

But still he did not give up. After one particularly disheartening search, Bofur sat down next to a young oak tree, growing in a patch of sunlight at the edge of the city. It was small and gave him comfort. But something was odd about this tree: oaks did not grow in these parts.

He asked around, wondering who had planted it in such an isolated spot. No one knew; it had simply grown there. Suspicion nagged at Bofur's mind. He dug around its roots, searching for a clue. He dreaded and yearned for what he might find. After all, oaks grew from acorns.

He had not dug very deep beneath the soil when he found the vest of mithril. Tears came unbidden to the old dwarf's eyes. Gently, gently, he lifted the vest up out of the soil. It was covered in filth, but the silver gleam of mithril shone through. The skeleton it was draped around was so small, so broken. Bofur had a difficult time removing the vest without hurting the young tree's roots or Bilbo's skeleton, but he managed. He covered the hole he had dug with earth again, then leaned against the tree, clutching the mithril vest.

Acorns and mithril: these were tokens of Bilbo's life, tokens Thorin would have found most meaningful. But Thorin was gone, along with Bilbo, and Bofur was here instead. What was he to do with these mementos? Surely the others would want closure. Surely they would want to know of what had happened to Bilbo.

Bofur took the vest and returned to Erebor. The next day, what remained of the Company gathered around a young oak and mourned. Some wished to take the skeleton and bury it with those of the others, but Bofur dissuaded them. The roots of the oak cradled those bones too tightly. He would not separate them. From cradle to grave, so the expression went. For Bilbo, a cradle of roots _was_ his grave.

"Bury the vest as a memory," he said, "or else display it in the halls of the dead."

It was done that same day. Poor Bilbo deserved better, some said, and that was true. He deserved life. But Bofur thought his body, buried with his acorn that had grown into a sapling, was where it ought to be. Death was commonplace, though tragic, but new life was born from it, and there was a certain beauty in this irony.


End file.
